


Why resist

by SSJandTechno



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Campaign 1 (Critical Role), Cassandra de Rolo Needs a Hug, In many shades, Matthew Mercer makes such good villains, Though not a lot of detail, Vampires, being vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23654731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SSJandTechno/pseuds/SSJandTechno
Summary: An hour before setting out for Emon to dine with Uriel Tal Dorei and his court, Sylas Briarwood is restless. Serious spoilers up to c1e22, but I'd avoid it until you're through to about c1e90 - you could work some later stuff out from this if you're clever
Relationships: Delilah Briarwood/Sylas Briarwood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Why resist

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware - I am NOT caught up with CR. I'm at c2e46. I've seen all of c1, but please do not spoil any c2 stuff for me.  
> But, dear me, Mercer writes very good villains.

Sylas Briarwood was restless.

In less than an hour, the carriage would set out, carrying Delilah and him to Emon, to play the sort of political games Delilah excelled at, aided and abetted by her witching. Daxio had opened certain critical doors, and told them which targets they most urgently needed to charm, and which they should not even attempt. Obviously Uriel himself was the prime target, then his halfling secret keeper. The two to avoid were a dragonborn, who ought to be easy to spot, and a particularly powerful wizard, a flax haired woman who had some schooling in common with Delilah. Those were the two most likely to notice and turn a charm spell, given that Daxio had taken care of Uriel’s defences.  
That was all Delilah’s domain really, he was an escort and a bodyguard, not that she needed one. He wasn’t anxious about this. They’d prepared well, it ought to be easy. The journey and the task ahead of them was not what made Sylas Briarwood restless.

They were leaving Whitestone in… it was fair to say capable hands, if not good hands. Ripley and Anders both knew their work, Vedmeyer, Grebin, Stonefell, and Tyleri ought to be able to keep the populace in check for a few weeks unaided. The Ziggurat would continue to be built, The Whispered One would have his ritual on time, and might even have the great city of Emon at his feet by then.

Still, however, Sylas was restless. This was not the restlessness of anticipation or anxiety. This was of a different kind, a kind most who knew him, even Delilah, could never truly understand. This, he suspected, was the Blood Urge. It had been a while since he’d fed, and feeding either on the road or in Emon was likely to be… complicated. He’d have to bleed his prey to death, then somehow destroy the body, all without being caught. That was likely to be difficult, unless a meal landed in his lap. The prospect of being unable to feed tended to make him very, very eager to, before he lost the means.

Which was why he found himself at the door of Delilah’s study. Only on very rare, very precious occasions did she allow him to feed from her. He very much doubted she’d say yes, but she was his wife. He ought to offer her first refusal, and he suspected his attention flattered her. She liked to be reminded that he still desired her above all others, even if she didn’t mean to indulge his desire. He didn’t knock. The door was open. She was pouring over papers, writing, her head slightly cocked to the right. He padded up behind her.  
“Sylas?” She asked, without looking round. She clearly knew it was him. He lowered his head towards her neck. “What do you want?” Her tone was acerbic. She was going to refuse, he was almost sure, but he was still going to ask.  
He brushed his lips against the pale skin of her neck, an inch or two below her ear. “I want you.”  
Delilah sighed theatrically. He could feel the heat radiating from her jugular, only a finger’s width from his mouth. “Sylas, I’m busy.” She nudged him away with the back of her hand. “Go and bother one of your girls.”  
It was Sylas’s turn to sigh theatrically. “I wondered if I might awaken… your wifely jealousy, that the thought of my pursuing another might rile you.”  
Fast as a wild cat, Delilah turned and grabbed the front of his shirt, pushing herself to her feet. “Oh it would, Sylas. It would awaken jealousy in me such as only a devoted wife can muster. I would be jealous beyond your imagining-” She pushed him back, hard. He stumbled a pace away from her. “-if I thought for a moment you wanted her body, not her blood.” She sat down again and went back to her papers. “Now go away.”  
Sylas sighed deeply and left. That was enough for him.

Now, of course, he had to decide who to feed on. He started away from her, moving quietly. He had five young women he fed from often, all of them lived in the keep, and all of them had long since realised there was no value in fighting him. They knew he could hold them by magic, or just brute strength. They knew that if they were obedient, came when he called and let him feed, he’d salve their necks, bite once and bite cleanly, and make sure they were tended to.  
Clearly there was something in his look that betrayed his intentions. The serving girls in the halls were all frantically busy as he passed them, averting their eyes. They were like little children, hiding their eyes to make themselves unseen. Maybe he could seek out Alice, one of Delilah’s new chambermaids. He’d been considering adding her to his sources for a few weeks; she was vital looking and her smell was appealing. It was almost always women that appealed to him, women or slight, lissome men, more often those with fey or elven ancestry than pure humans. But such men were scant in Whitestone, hence his favoured sources here were, without exception, women. If a prisoner in the cells beneath needed to die, occasionally Sylas would deliver that sentence. Occasionally, the mood took him to fight with his prey, to hear them scream as he bled them. But today was not one of those days. Alice would be a new source for him. She’d undoubtedly struggle and plead, he’d need to charm her or pin her down. He wanted to preserve his magic for the journey ahead, and he was not in the mood to wrestle.

Sylas stopped. He was standing outside the library. Of course, she was such a natural choice in this moment, and he’d not bled her for months. He and Delilah would carry the authority of the de Rolos to Emon, it seemed fitting to carry some of what remained of their blood. Sylas tapped on the doorframe.  
“Cassandra.”  
She twisted sharply to look at him, startled, and shut the book with a snap. She got to her feet and curtseyed. “My Lord?"  
“Close the curtains.” Cassandra obliged, blocking out the pool of sunlight she’d been sitting in. Through glass it wouldn’t hurt him badly, but it was still uncomfortable. She turned to him. There was a wary look to her. However careful he was, being fed upon was unpleasant, and she seemed to sense what was coming. He stepped towards the seat she’d been occupying a minute earlier. “Come here.” Again, she did as he asked, hands clasped in front of her, eyes down, breathing through her nose. “You know what I’m going to ask of you?” She nodded once, she might have been biting her lip. She’d tolerate this. She didn’t enjoy it, but she’d tolerate it. “Good.” He raised his hands and undid the top two buttons of her blouse. “Last time I used the right?”  
“The right.” She said quietly, turning her head slightly to the right. She knew what to do.  
He turned the left side of her collar away and applied the first salve over her jugular. This one was herbalism, not magic. A salve for bruises, and to numb the skin a little. “Give that a minute.” He said, putting the pot back in his pocket, readying the cloth with the second. He didn’t want to have to think about that while he was feeding. “Now Cassandra, while we’re away, you are our eyes and ears in the castle, is that understood?” She nodded once. “Anders and Ripley are both… competent, but I do not trust either of them. You are the only one in this castle that I trust. So watch, listen, and remember all, then tell us when we return. Yes?”  
“Yes.”

He laid a hand gently on the underside of her chin and raised it so she faced him. “You’re one of us. More so than Stonefell, more than Ripley even. You have a purpose here, and a destiny.” She was still avoiding his eye. She was too focused on what was about to happen. “It won’t be long, Cassandra.” He grasped her jaw more firmly and turned her head a little to the right, tilting it slightly as well. She’d closed her eyes. 

He extended his fangs and wiped away what of the first salve was left with his hand. He put the cloth bearing the second salve in to her right hand. He lowered his mouth to her neck. He brushed his lips across her skin, there were no scars, witchcraft saw to that, but he wouldn’t get a very good bite from this position. “Relax, Cassandra.” She drew a slow, deep breath. He grasped her upper arms, only to steady her, she wouldn’t struggle. As she began to let the breath go, her jugular rose up.  
He bit her. For a heartbeat, he tasted only the bitter salve, then blood, hot, rich blood rushed in to his mouth. He clamped his mouth to the wound and drew. This was what he’d needed. He was breathing hard. Cassandra seemed to be holding her breath. He closed his eyes and let the rush of the feed fill him. Very little in life measured up to this, feeling the lifeblood of a human pour in to him, reviving him, invigorating him. This was what he’d needed. His prey was silent and still, she felt no need to resist him now. Maybe, one day, he’d bleed her fully, until she was white and unmoving, then lay her to rest and wait for her to return to him as her sire. One day, she might be his kin. But not yet. Not until The Whispered One was with them and Cassandra could see death for the meager obstacle it was to those who chose to embrace it. But not yet. He’d come here to feed. He could feel the swells of blood in her neck coming faster as her heart picked up speed at the loss of blood. She wasn’t holding her breath now, she was panting, like he was. He could hear it, even feel the vibrations of it through her flesh. Though she was placid, her body still fought. Just a little more. Just a little further. This was what he’d come for, he needed this. He couldn’t stop yet. She gave a soft, stifled squeak. Her heart was racing now. He couldn’t risk killing her. Just a little more. Just a little further. He needed this. He couldn’t stop yet. She swayed slightly and grasped at his right arm with her left. Her pulses were growing weaker.  
Now he had to stop. He could not risk killing her. He grabbed her right hand in his left, pulled back from her blood and clamped her hand bearing the salved cloth to the wound. He took her other arm firmly in his right hand and lowered to the seat she’d been sitting on.  
“Pressure.” He reminded her. They were both still panting. Her eyes were glazed. Keeping one hand over hers and the salved cloth, he lowered her head almost to her knees. “You’re alright, Cassandra. It’ll pass, you’re alright.” She didn’t reply. His breathing was settling faster than hers was. He felt that he was almost smoldering with power. He felt able to take on a world, certainly a Kingdom.  
He sat with Cassandra a minute longer, then got up and made for the door.  
“You.” He barked at a passing maid, who jumped like a whipped dog. “Fetch a mug of warm milk for Lady Cassandra. See to it that she’s taken to bed and taken care of.”  
The girl nodded and curtseyed, “Yessir” then scurried away.

Sylas kept moving. With that much fresh blood in his body it was hard to be still. He should go and check that the carriage was ready. Emon awaited.


End file.
